


so let me judge your love affair

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing that Xabi notices about Thomas Müller is that he constantly seems to be on the edge of tumbling messily into greatness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so let me judge your love affair

**Author's Note:**

> _so let me judge your love affair in this very room where I have sentenced mine to death_  
>   
> 
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> 
> I don’t really know what I was trying to do with this. It was supposed to be a part of something longer and more concrete but it turned into two character studies of kinda specific headcanons and wasn’t really going anywhere, so. It's a bit choppy and a bit pointless but enjoy anyways?
> 
> The title is from _Take This Longing_ by Leonard Cohen. It's pretty much the song of choice for this version of Xabi and I recommend listening to it while sobbing into your old Liverpool/Real Madrid kits.

 

 

The first thing that Xabi notices about Thomas Müller is that he constantly seems to be on the edge of tumbling messily into greatness, possibly by way of tripping over something innocuous lying on the ground or trying to leap onto the back of one of his team mates and missing, instead sending himself flying headlong into glory.

Xabi has known many, many footballers over the years who have steadily marched towards greatness as though it was some kind of mountain to be conquered. But most of the ones who had actually achieved it had done so while not really looking, while putting more energy into something else, club or country perhaps, so Xabi thinks that Thomas probably has the right idea.

The second thing he notices about Thomas Müller is that he isn’t Steven Gerrard. This observation usually clocks in at around the top five when Xabi meets someone new. Sure, Thomas loves Bayern with all his heart and with a kind of overwhelming exuberance that characterises him in everything he does. But Thomas is content to live with Bayern under his own skin without trying to wrap anyone else up in this cloth that they might not be cut from. Xabi likes Bayern, he thinks it a good club with a good culture but he’s glad that Thomas Müller isn’t going to make him want to feel it in his bones. Xabi never likes wanting things he can’t have.

So he’s relieved to find that Thomas Müller isn’t Steven Gerrard because it leaves Xabi comfortably free of the itching sense to tell the truth under his tongue when he has to give the standard set of press statements: Bayern is my home now, _mia san mia._

 

\--

 

Thomas takes to Xabi and Xabi finds that he doesn’t mind. Thomas is sharp as a tack despite all the flailing limbs, and he’s not afraid to speak his mind. When Thomas wants to know something, he asks. And he asks Xabi barely a month into the season, in the dressing room after training.

It had been the first truly chilly day since he had arrived in Germany, the encroaching autumn tugging at the heels of September, and Xabi is pulling off his training jacket and gloves when Thomas slides onto the bench next to him.

Xabi nods in greeting which Thomas interprets as an invitation to roll the tape, as it were. Not that he particularly needs an invitation, but if anyone asked later why he had been talking Xabi’s ear off for the past hour or so, it was always nice to be able to claim that Xabi had started it.

Thomas chatters for a bit about the training before fixing Xabi with a discerning gaze. For someone who is the closest human personification of three cats arguing over a ball of yarn that Xabi has ever met, he gets the sense that Thomas is frighteningly perceptive. Suddenly finding himself under the microscope makes Xabi twitch.

“How do you like Bayern?” Thomas asks, too intent to be casual. “The club, the city, everything. First impressions? Second impressions?”

“It’s a lovely here. And I’ve always wanted to play in the Bundesliga.” Xabi says truthfully.

Thomas grins. “Xabi Alonso, globetrotter.” It’s not a jibe but Xabi feels his face go a bit wooden. Thomas notices as well. “Don’t worry about it,” He says conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you a secret: not everyone here loves Bayern Munich with all their heart and soul.” He widens his eyes in comic horror. “Shocking I know, but true.”

Xabi thinks he’s joking. But. He’s also not entirely sure.

“Incredibly enough, some people just like to play football, and they’ll play football for whoever wants them long enough. And they love their clubs and they want to succeed, but sometimes –and I tell you this in the most serious of secrecies, tell no one and especially not the marketing reps- footballers actually love _different_ clubs _more_ than the ones they play for.” He nods solemnly. “Greatest hidden truth in the sport.”

Xabi can feel a grin curling his lips almost without thinking. Thomas has his faux-conspiracy narrator voice down pat.

Thomas is still talking, unsurprisingly. “Yeah, they don’t want anyone to know about it. But these footballers who like to wander about are actually somewhat important to the way the whole thing works.” He contorts his face into a wink. “So anyway, welcome to Bayern. Enjoy your stay.”

It’s absolution, and Xabi realises this is why some people go to church every Sunday.

 

\--

 

Xabi is beginning to learn that Thomas isn’t just witty remarks and boundless enthusiasm. There’s something a little bit terrible about Thomas in the old-fashioned sense of the word, hidden at the back of his crooked teeth and in the bends of his knobby knees. Thomas when he plays football, twisting and turning and finding his way into the exact places he needs to be. Thomas when he plays viciously, curling fingers into jerseys and dragging down as many people as he has to, always to leap up and rain down protestations of innocence in what would be almost comic melodrama if it weren’t so deadly serious. Thomas plays football, and he plays every inch of football.

There’s also something a little bit terrible about Thomas in the way that he always knows exactly what he wants, but sometimes neglects to inform anyone else of his claim until he’s already got it in his hands. Thomas stealing balls into the back of the net when it seems impossible, Thomas hauling his team mates along with whatever latest scheme he’s cooked up, Thomas cornering Xabi at midnight after Bayern wins the league when Xabi is just over the edge of being too intoxicated to keep a handle on the careful restraint that he’s built around himself.

“Most anti-climatic bit of silverware we’ve ever won. Hopefully the Pokal will be better.” Thomas remarks, eyes sharp despite the fairly dangerous number of beers Xabi has seen him down since the team had decided to go out and celebrate. “One down, two to go.”

Xabi smirks lazily at him. “That is why I came here after all.”

It’s a joke but Thomas shakes his head anyway. “You’re not a glory-hunter, Xabi,” he says easily. “At least not entirely. You might pretend you are sometimes. When you’re not pretending to be a one-club man for every club that turns your way.”

“What am I then?” Xabi asks, partly playing along but also curious as to what Thomas’ answer will be.

Thomas grins wryly. “Xabi Alonso, globetrotter.” He has a hand around Xabi’s wrist, fingers playing over the skin, and Xabi isn’t entirely sure when it got there. He’s also not entirely sure that he minds. “I’ve told you that already. Weren’t you listening?”

“That was a while ago. You haven’t changed your assessment?”

“I’m generally right on the first try.” Thomas winks and it’s not a handsome wink, Thomas isn’t exactly what could be described even by a generous person as handsome. But Thomas is good at getting what he wants, and there’s the unmistakable sheen of _something_ about him that Xabi likes, something burning whenever he talks about his club -his Bayern Munich- that reminds Xabi of the places he’s been and the people he’s known, and Xabi knows he’s going to fall for it. He has every time before.

 

\--

 

For all his oddities and idiosyncrasies, Thomas is not an uncomfortable person. He acts with assurance and purpose, and even if he might occasionally move as if he’s made of springs they are well-adjusted springs. It works.

The team is lined up in the tunnel and Thomas sidles up to Xabi, grinning.

“Ready to win the Champions League on the pitch this time instead of from the stands, yeah?”

Xabi swats at him but grins good-naturedly. “We have to get past Barcelona first,” he reminds him. “Don’t run ahead of yourself.”

Thomas widens his eyes in mock protest. “Don’t run ahead of myself?” he repeats, incredulous. “But how else will I manage to score?”

 

\--

 

They don’t win the Champions League, from the pitch or from the stands. They trip up that night under the lights of the Camp Nou, and despite scraping themselves back up in the second leg it’s not quite enough.

After, in the dressing room at the Allianz as Barcelona celebrate their journey to the final, Thomas shrugs. “We try again next time.” He looks at Xabi sideways, scrutinising him. “What d’you say Alonso? Next time?”

It’s a question wrapped in rhetoric, indirectly asked contrary to Thomas’ usual style. Xabi thinks about it, deciding to give Thomas the benefit of an honest answer rather than the pull-string response. “Yes,” he says slowly, turning it over in his mind. “I think so. Next time.”

Thomas smiles then, all sharp teeth and satisfaction. “Good.” He agrees. “Good.” The smile turns mischievous. “After all, the MLS will still be there this time next year, unless America finally decides to scrap the whole thing as a bad job.”

Xabi rolls his eyes. “Already writing me off, Müller?” He frowns. “And anyway, there’s also Qatar. Or China. I might never go to the MLS. What’s in America?”

Thomas gives him a look. “Oh, nothing.” He says it with exaggerated patience, as though with a contrary child. “Just the weather’s supposed to be nice in Los Angeles, that’s all.”

Sometimes it seems as though Xabi is doomed to work with smart-asses for the rest of his natural life.

 

\--

 

After the news of Bastian’s transfer becomes public, Xabi talks to Thomas. He actually _enjoys_ talking to Thomas, or rather, listening to Thomas, despite all the teasing complaints thrown his way. Radio Müller: always on, always bringing you the latest.

“All the papers are saying you’re next for United.” Xabi says, carefully not a question.

Thomas quirks an eyebrow. “All the papers? I thought it was just _Bild_ and whatever the English equivalent is.”

“The Daily Mail,” Xabi fills in promptly. Thomas just waves a hand.

“Well it’s all just daydreams. I’m not moving unless someone kidnaps me and forcibly stuffs me into a Manchester kit.”

Xabi watches him but he can never tell what Thomas is thinking. Everything he says is fast-paced and flippant but always calculated. For someone seemingly such an open book (an _audio_ book), Xabi finds it hard to get a read on him. “A few weeks ago that’s what I would have thought about Bastian.”

Thomas flicks aside his doubts. “Bastian and I are in different situations,” he says impatiently. “Don’t read the newspapers, Xabi. You only know when you know, and you _should_ know that.”

Xabi flushes, unsure if it’s a subtle jab at his own storied history of transfer windows or just a throwaway comment but feeling targeted all the same.

Thomas notices his discomfort. “I’m with Bayern through and through, and that’s not just for the hefty salary they pay me or for the free reign with the megaphone. Go worry about someone else.”

 

\--

 

Thomas loves Bayern as he might a child, any humour at the idea of Thomas as the team parent aside. He loves Bayern’s wins and losses equally, he accepts them all with the same good humour. It’s an unconditional loyalty that sticks in the back of Xabi’s throat when he thinks about it with a cross between jealousy and admiration.

The day after the transfer window closes Thomas sends him a text, just a single winking emoji. _You only know when you know,_ he had said, but Xabi thinks that in this case, he probably should have guessed well enough.

 

 


End file.
